


Spreading Out

by Gileonnen



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Dishonor on Your Cow, Gen, Misogynistic Characters, Mocking Glendower Is Hereditary, Selective Deafness, War Profiteering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:03:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard II has been deposed and the weather's clearing up, which means it's just about time time for a new war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spreading Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angevin2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/gifts).



> Beta-read by the lovely [La Reine Noire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire).

Just as soon as the new king is installed and the last king inhumed, old Henry Percy returns to his gloomy castle in Northumberland to prepare for the next war. It's just as he always tells young Hotspur: there's _always_ a next war, and the best any man can do is be ready to serve in it. "To _profit_ from it, you mean," says that shrill little wife of his, but the Percys of Northumberland haven't gotten where they are today by listening to their women, so he pretends to be hard of hearing and ignores Kate's remonstrations. This is the time-honored privilege of the father-in-law: to be exactly as infirm as is convenient.

She says "profit" as though it's a bad thing. How can profit ever be a bad thing?

The Scots, now, the Scots are a perfect example. The borderlands aren't going to settle down in _his_ lifetime, and probably not in his son's lifetime, and if Hotspur ever gets around to squeaking out a son then they probably won't settle down in his _grandson's_ lifetime. It's the blessing of Northumberland to be located at the very northmost point of England, where the wars are always close to hand and no one has to waste time gallivanting all over the terrain. Maximal carnage with minimal inconvenience, just as he likes it.

"Of course," says Henry Percy's guest, as he gnaws thoughtfully at a leg of pheasant, "It does _spread out_ the profit a bit, if you see what I mean."

The lord of Northumberland knows exactly what he means. If anyone understands _spreading out_ , it's Sir John Falstaff. "Spreads out the profit," he allows, "But there's more to go around. The kind of men you have left, once the good conscripts have bought their way out of the army--well, you're not likely to get any kind of plunder with _that_ lot. You'll be lucky to escape with your head."

"But I'll have my head, and that's no small prize."

Against his inclinations, Percy likes having Falstaff to dinner. The two of them can be honest around one another.

"My son," says Northumberland, "Has gotten some kind of absurd notions of honor into his head. It's very strange." Honor, as far as the elder Percy is concerned, is mainly the purview of people who owe _him_ favors and allegiance, and not of people to whom he owes them. Since Hotspur falls very generally into the former category, his father is not entirely keen to dissuade the tendency, but even he must admit that the marked preference for single duels is tempting fate a bit. "And your charge? The vagrant prince?"

"No more honor than a weasel has," replies Falstaff proudly, scooping another helping of puddings onto his plate. "He'll be just like his father." Whether Falstaff means himself or King Henry IV, Northumberland tactfully does not inquire.

The two of them tuck in, enjoying a companionable silence as the fire crackles and the dogs nose their knees for scraps. The canary and sack flow freely, until eventually Falstaff's head comes to rest on his palm, then drops to his arm, then drops to the table. "'m not asleep," he mutters into the woodgrain, but in a few minutes, he's snoring.

 _No more honor than a weasel,_ the lord of Northumberland muses, as a team of burly servingmen wrestle Falstaff out of his chair and into the guest quarters. _Just like his father._ Since the new-made King Henry IV hasn't yet made any gestures even vaguely connected with honor, viz. turning over money and lands to Northumberland immediately, this fresh intelligence is not exactly heartening.

There's always Scotland, though. Northumberland is on the very edge of England, and so are a fair number of other malcontents; Scotland's prime, as usual, and all he has to do is nip over the border and have a few quiet words with the Douglas clan. And there's Wales, too--that raging nutter Glendower seems to have figured out how to get the Welsh into one place for long enough to make an army of them.

Henry Percy understands that there are many ways to earn a profit--even if it means spreading the profit around.


End file.
